


Arrhythmia: Causes and Symptoms

by WaterBottle



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterBottle/pseuds/WaterBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongin might be in medical school, but that doesn't mean he's got any idea what's going on with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrhythmia: Causes and Symptoms

**Author's Note:**

> Stay thirsty, my friends.

  
  


“I’m moving out,” is the first thing Jongin Kim hears when he wakes up.

Well, not really.

The first thing he hears is the clink of porcelain and the long, dry scuffle of something being dragged across the kitchen floor. Jongin’s bedroom door is only open a crack, but he can hear the box grinding dirt into the tile grout. And he can hear when his roommate loses his grip and slips on a lonely piece of newspaper wrapping, goes crashing to the floor with a painful, fleshy thud and a lot of cursing.

Jongin gets out of bed and stuffs his feet into his slippers, and then these slippered feet make their own long, dry scuffle across the shoebox bedroom and out into the shoebox kitchen. This is when Jongin's roommate informs him of the moving-out plan, effective immediately.

“What?” Jongin replies, pinky wedged into his ear as he shambles to the coffee pot. He fumbles a bit, has to shake himself awake while he shakes coffee grounds into the filter. The scent does a good job of raising the hair on his arms. Hazelnut. Yum.

“I’m moving out today,” Jongin’s roommate repeats, and doesn’t wait for a response before dusting off the seat of his jeans and yanking, tugging, pulling that unenthusiastic cardboard box out into the hall.

Jongin’s eyes are still mostly closed, he’s fishing blindly in an overhead cabinet for a mug. He doesn’t see that most of his cups and bowls are missing, that the cardboard box was fat with stolen china. The mug he lifts from the shelf, one of the last ones, is stamped with bright red serifed text: _You know what gets on my nerves? Myelin_. He smiles goofily down at it. It’s one of his favorites, sue him.

Jongin retreats back to his bedroom and returns with his glasses. By then Roommate as also returned. Leaning against the counter and scooping full tablespoons of sugar into his coffee, Jongin asks, “Why?”

Roommate Matt— _wait, is that even his name?_ Jongin purses his lips against the rim of his mug and squints in thought, tunes out the other guy’s increasingly irate rambling. _Matthew? No, wait, that’s the same thing. Max? M—_

“Dude,” Roommate groans, “are you even listening?”

“Huh? Yeah. You’re moving out?”

Roommate sighs with the weight of three months cohabitation. “Yeah, I just don’t think I can do this. I told you like, two weeks ago. Remember?”

No, Jongin does not remember. In fact, if he _had_ remembered he would have posted a listing on Craigslist or something because rent’s due in ten days. Shit. “Uh,” says Jongin.

“You keep literally the worst schedule—and I don’t blame you for that, really. I know you’re doing the whole med school thing—but aside from that?” Roommate eyes the fly-infested dishes in the sink and then the refrigerator, which, if opened, would reveal quite the menagerie of half-eaten, week-old mounds of take-out. “You’re kind of a mess.”

Jongin sips his coffee slowly. _Marc? I think it’s Marc._ He goes for it. “Well, Marc. If that’s how you really feel. I wish you the best.” Jongin nods to himself, thumbs the handle of his mug, and lopes back to his bedroom.

“It’s Mark with a _k!_ ” Mark-with-a-k hollers after him, because three months of cohabitation is enough to know someone, even if said someone is practically a ghost. Twin mattress strapped to his back, Mark squeezes out of the front door and out of Jongin’s world. (At this moment in time, Jongin’s world is six-hundred gritty square feet of dirty laundry smell.)

Jongin figures he can squeeze in a good half-hour nap before the caffeine kicks in, but, thinking of the recently emptied bedroom down the hall, he does something infinitely more wise.

  
  
  


“Okay—okay, yes. Yes.” Jongin peers inside his refrigerator and, cell phone fused to his ear, halfheartedly counts the number of takeout boxes filling the shelves. “There’s only seven, it’s not even that bad… What do you mean? Of course I’m going to eat them.” After wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder, he grabs at the nearest one and gives it a cursory sniff. It seems relatively safe, he’s pretty sure it’s only from a few days ago. He grabs a pair of chopsticks from the sink cup.

The chopsticks don’t match; each piece of gelid, leftover garlic chicken is carried to his mouth in a scaffold of stainless steel and flower-spotted powder blue. He thinks the one with the daisy print is his niece’s, but he can’t be sure.

Slouching against the counter, he chews while he’s scolded. After he swallows down the last of his breakfast, he gives his ceiling an emphatic eyeroll. “I know that _now_ , Mom. Not really helping.”

“You’re old enough to pick up after yourself now, Jongin,” his mother chides, but he can hear a hint of amusement despite the obvious annoyance. He had, after all, called her at 9AM. And she’d answered the phone all the way out in California, yawning. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that, by a miracle of either divine origin or the talk of your gossip circle, you happen to know someone trustworthy who’s looking to share a spacious, two-bedroom apartment in a wonderful luxury complex right on the river—”

His mother cuts him off with a laugh. “You live in a closet next to a cemetery.”

“You don’t have to say it like _that_ ,” Jongin gripes. “And maybe so, but there’s always room for upward growth. The richest man comes from the humblest beginnings. Think of the future!”

Jongin likes to imagine his future as such: working long, rewarding hours at his own private practice and then going home (to an apartment blissfully larger than a supply closet) to be greeted by a bunch of ecstatic, yapping dogs that totally love him. Like, at least three dogs. That’d be sick.

His imminent future, however, consists of pinching and pulling his leggings so the spandex doesn’t bunch around his crotch, lacing up his sneakers, snagging his keys from their hook by the front door, and running to catch the D train just before it leaves the station.

Half an hour and he’s aboveground again, several miles south, and his phone immediately starts shivering in the pocket of his hoodie. Jongin can’t wait until there’s cell service underground. Now _that’s_ what the future’s all about, really. Getting those radio waves to push through an extra eighty feet of rock.

Anyway, the message:

 **Mom - Today** 9:31AM            FOUND YOU ROOMMATE. GOES TO COLUMBIA TOO WHAT A COINCIDENCE. YOU USED TO PLAY WITH HIM AS BABIES. YOU MUST CONTACT HIM

It’s 9:53 now, but before Jongin can even think of replying the rest of her messages roll in. And what follows is the date of birth, phone number, personal email, work email, current address and previous address of one Sehun Oh—all the information capitalized of course, because his mother insists it’s easier on her eyes despite her twenty-twenty vision.

 **Mom -** 9:33 AM            I DO NOT HAVE A GOSSIP CIRCLE

Except Jongin knows from a reliable source that his mother meets with her friends every Wednesday evening without fail to play Go-Stop, so he’s calling bullshit. He texts his reliable source (which may or not be his sister), asking for visual confirmation.

 **Jungah - Today** 9:56 AM            You’re late. Go stop switched to poker 2 weeks ago. Mom’s been killing it

 _Gambling??? :^(_            9:56 AM

 **Jungah -** 9:58 AM            Why do you care so much lol Get a life loser

 _Mom I love you don’t gamble your savings away_ , he types in his previous chat, presses send, and is promptly hit in the face with a glass door.

Granted he’d been on autopilot, nose glued to his phone while he jogged down 8th Avenue, so it’s mostly his fault. Still, he gives the perp a dirty look on his way in the building because _ow_ , his nose is smarting. He pinches it on the elevator ride up.

“You’re late,” is the first thing Jongin hears when he gets to the studio. Which is also bullshit, because it’s not even ten yet. His class is at eleven, and he only needs a half hour to warm up. He doesn’t say any of this though, because Ruth may be petite, the crown of her head barely reaching Jongin’s chin, but the weight of her glare is enough to get him slouching. There. Now they’re almost eye-level.

“Train was late,” Jongin lies.

“Don’t lie,” Ruth says, and walks away. Tossing a look back over her dark, glossy shoulder she adds, “And fix your posture! No one would ever guess you teach in a yoga studio.”

Jongin would be lying (again) if he said he wasn’t a little bit in love with her.

He lopes to the empty staff room and unrolls his mat, breathes deep, and does a few salutations to get his blood flowing. But it’s hard for him to focus this morning. He’s thinking about how best to message the guy his mom found for him and whether or not he should post an ad somewhere, just in case. Like maybe a wanted ad? The kind that people usually do for lost pets. But would anyone even respond to that? Plus Jongin doesn’t know if he’d feel comfortable posting his phone number out there for the world to see. And then his mind goes on a wild tangent that starts with eviction and ends with Jongin dropping out of school and holy shit, okay Jongin. Breathe.

His hair’s getting long. Stringy with sweat all the way down to his brow, it sticks to the mat when he presses his forehead to the ground. When he rises to finish he feels a bit better, and he pulls his hair into a tiny bundle on top of his head. He feels ridiculous.

“You look ridiculous,” one of his coworkers says when they pass him in the hall. Jongin squints after them, feeling betrayed, but leaves the ponytail intact.

When Jongin pushes into Room 1, the orange strips of fabric hanging from the ceiling mimic the loose crescent of his grin.

“Welcome to Flight School,” he says, clapping his hands together in front of him. “I’m Jongin, and I’ll be leading you all today in aerial foundations. Don’t worry if you’ve never done this before, you don’t have to be good at it. Just breathe, and stretch the possibilities.”

  
  
  


He has several new messages waiting for him after his morning session, all from his mother, all imploring. Jongin can feel a vein pulse in his temple. He really needs to expand his contact list. He gives in to her hounding. _Okay I’ll call him_ , he writes. And then he jokes, _What’s his blood type?_

 **Mom -** 12:36 PM            TYPE O.

 **Mom -** 12:37 AM            YOUR SISTER SAYS ARIES CAPRICORN  NOT VERY COMPATIBLE. BUT HE IS ALSO YEAR OF THE DOG HOW LUCKY FOR YOU

Because of course she knows that. Of course.

The rest of Jongin’s afternoon passes in a stretch of overzealous studying for his Health and Disease lab. He’s brought out of it as the sun sets, when his long montage of muttering and pen-clicking is interrupted by a flurry of angry frog noises.

 **Mom -** 5:05 PM            DID YOU CALL HIM YET?

 **Mom -** 5:07 PM            YOU REALLY SHOULD

Wow, he should really change his notification sound one of these days. Maybe. Probably ought to do it before he gets his degree. Although… he’ll have plenty of time to be Dr. Serious once he’s actually a doctor, so doesn’t that make _now_ the best time for ribbiting? In Jongin’s well-educated opinion: yes.

He sighs, flips his textbook closed, and dives for his bed. Forget the ribbiting. A nap sounds great right now.

  
  
  


His dream starts pretty much like his morning did, except when he opens his bedroom door there isn’t a slighted roommate in sight. Because Jongin’s somehow out in the hall outside his apartment unit. The hall lights glow ultramarine, deep and radiant, and Jongin’s body glows blue along with them. He feels like he’s at an aquarium, strolling under a glass tunnel of striped angelfish and bloated belugas, but then he looks down. He’s barefoot, and beneath his bluish toes the ground tile is a warped black-and-white checkerboard. It has him feeling a little dizzy as he makes he way to the elevator, hand pressed to the wall for support. This elevator is not the one in Jongin’s building though. It’s fancier, has two brassy sliding doors instead of the single-door steel death trap Jongin’s used to. This shiny new elevator pings, the doors push apart.

Jongin steps inside, arms outstretched, and falls straight through the floor, right down the chute.

  
  
  


He lands back in bed, having twitched himself awake. He waits until his heart rate has regulated some before heaving himself upright. Man, falling dreams are the worst.

He’s got one missed call and _whoops_ , he didn’t mean to sleep so long. Oh well.

 **Mom -** 6:25 PM            ??

 **Mom -** 6:39 PM            I WILL CALL THEN

 **Mom -** 7:12 PM            I CALLED HIM. VERY NICE BOY CALL HIM

So Sehun Oh gets added to Jongin’s address book. Jongin saves the guy as LUCKY DOG, and finally manages to send a message his way some time between dinner and more studying. It takes him a solid six minutes to construct the text. Jongin embraces procrastination of all kinds.

_Hi Sehun, this is Jongin. You probably don’t remember me, we used to play together as kids. I think my mom called you? Sorry. Anyway word has it that you’re in need of a roommate, and mine just moved out. What do you think about a 33rd Ave reunion?_

He doesn’t get a reply until the following morning, when he’s waiting in line for some much-needed caffeine after his morning lecture. Unfortunately, his phone is not on vibrate. It croaks, and the girl waiting behind him snickers.

 **LUCKY DOG - Today** 10:05AM            Hi Jongin. Where do you live?

 **LUCKY DOG -** 10:06AM            I remember you. And your mom was very nice over the phone, don’t worry about it.

 _Great,_ Jongin writes. _If you’re not busy tonight want to swing by?_ He gives Sehun his address, then adds: _Across from the Chinese place. If you pick up some egg rolls I’ll consider it an act of good faith._

 **LUCKY DOG -** 10:11 AM            Okay.

Jongin isn’t sure if that means Sehun’ll pick up food or not, but right now he has more pressing matters to attend to. His cup of mocha latte is steaming hot to the touch, and a brick of rubberband-bound flashcards is weighing down his backpack like a block of cement, so he finds himself a seat in the café’s corner, and gets to memorizing. And he does well, for a while.

He’s only slightly distracted when a pretty girl flounces over and sits at the table next to his. Only verrrrry slightly, honest. She has a small face and a flat brow, lips painted pink, and when she notices him staring she tosses a lock of silky, dark hair over her shoulder and gives him a cold look, full of suspicion.

Jongin looks quickly back to his note cards, frowning. _What order kinetic is typical glomerular filtration of a drug?_ it asks him. _What about metabolism of drugs, when drug concentration is well below Km for the enzyme?_

And that’s when Jongin lets his mind wander a bit. But only because she looks _really_ familiar. To the point where he feels like he knows the sound of her voice, but he can’t place her. It’s frustrating, especially because she’s kind of hot. She taps her pen to her notepad and sips her drink. Distracting.

Finally Jongin swallows, looks back over to her, opens his mouth, “H—”

“Can I _help_ you?” the girl asks, though her tone implies that she would rather not.

Jongin’s mouth snaps shut and his shoulders tense in embarrassment. He gives in to the urge to fidget, splays his cards out in front of him so he can run a finger along the table’s edge. “Sorry, I was just wondering… You look really familiar? Do you go to school around here?”

She looks at him shrewdly, eyes roaming over his face. Shit, did he comb his hair this morning? He knows he brushed his teeth, at least. Then he glances down and yep, those are croissant flakes along the collar of his shirt. Nice.

“Clinical foundations,” the girl says after an excruciating couple of seconds.

“Huh?”

“ _Clinical foundations_ ,” she repeats, “second semester. You were always late to the narrative seminars.”

Jongin gapes. He was _not!_ It only happened like two… maybe three times. Four tops. And that last time was only by like two minutes! But before he can reply, someone else comes over and takes the chair opposite her. This stranger is tall, and cramming their long legs beneath the small, round table looks like it takes some serious effort. They’ve got a trendy winter parka and a cap tilted down over their eyes. Jongin can’t see their face, but he likes the voice that comes along with it well enough.

“Everything alright?” the guy asks in pleasant baritone, and pretty girl with the flat brow and cold stare flicks her gaze to her new companion. The moment she turns her head Jongin’s relief is palpable, he practically melts into a puddle on his seat. As it is, he picks up his mocha and lets the steam waft over his face. At least now he has an excuse for the sad, cherry-tomato state of his complexion.

“I’m fine,” she trills, and flips more hair over her shoulder.

“I know,” says the guy, and then he’s turning to face Jongin, pushing his cap up and off. The dude’s got some serious hat hair but whoa baby, that face. Okay. Jongin’s heart thumps. He can get behind this. _Not literally—well, yes literally, but—fuck. Ahhhhhggg I mean_ shit! _Shit. Fuck. Brain, get it together._ Jongin gulps when that attractive face tilts in his direction. “I’m asking him.”

The girl scoffs, rolls her eyes.

Jongin squeaks. “Huh?”

“You alright?” the guy asks him, brows tilted up in concern. “Krystal’s quite the ball-buster, for sure.”

“Shut up,” the girl hisses. Krystal? Huh. The name doesn’t sound that familiar, but Jongin’s pretty sure he remembers that sneer.

“Uh,” Jongin croaks, “I’m fine? I was just, uh.”

Krystal apparently takes pity. “Both are the first order,” she states.

 _What?_ Jongin thinks.

“What?” her friend asks.

“The answer to your flash card,” Krystal says, fanning out her fingers to check her manicure. “First-order kinetics.”

Jongin, still a bit lost, looks down to the cards he’d put on the table. _What order kinetic is typical glomerular filtration of a drug?_ it’s still asking him. Oh. Right.

“Right,” he says with a slight wince. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Krystal says, rather magnanimously. Then she gives her friend a glare. “See? I was helping him study. So you can drop the knight-in-shining-armor act, Chanyeol.”

The guy, Chanyeol, reaches up to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow. “Oh thank God,” he says, and sheds his jacket onto the chair behind him, “that armor weighs a fucking ton.” He’s got on a soft-looking gray zip-up, and he pushes the sleeves up his forearms. Then he sends Jongin a grin and winks, eyes twinkling.

“Ew, no,” Krystal says. “Please stop.”

Chanyeol doesn’t listen, if anything his grin grows wider, possibly lecherous. He shifts sideways in his seat and leans in Jongin’s direction, elbows resting on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “So you two are classmates? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Chanyeol.”

“Yeah. Well no. I mean, not currently. We just had seminars together our first year but uhm. I’m Jongin?” _Wow, absolutely stellar._

Chanyeol hums, leans back up to prop his chin in his hand. “So what field do you want to go into? I know Krystal wants to go into research.” Chanyeol chuckles. “It’s probably for the best. Not really a people person, this one.”

“Excuse me,” Krystal interrupts, though she doesn’t even glance up from her notes, “I’ll have you know my bedside manner is perfectly acceptable.”

Chanyeol opens his mouth for what is likely to be another wise crack, but Jongin intervenes.

“Pediatrics,” he says. “I’d like to be a pediatrician.”

Chanyeol looks delighted by this. “Really? That’s awesome, my d—”

And that’s when Jongin’s backpack ribbits. Loudly. Multiple times.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes wide. He doesn’t even read the messages, just sends his mom and rushed _yes I talked to him he’s coming over later_ , switches his phone to silent, and slips it into his pocket. “You were saying?”

Chanyeol looks about ready to laugh, swipes a large hand over the lower half of his face to restrain himself. He looks at his watch. “Nothing. I actually have to get going, I just stopped in because I saw Her Highness through the window.” He stands up and shrugs into his coat, turns back to Jongin with a regretful expression. After a moment of thought he steals Krystal’s gel pen and scribbles on a card that he’d pulled from his pocket. “Listen,” he starts, and slips Jongin the small white rectangle. “If you want, maybe we can get coffee another time?”

“Oh _please_ ,” Krystal groans from behind him.

Chanyeol coughs pointedly. “Preferably _without_ Her Majesty the Judgemental? Anyway, that’s my card. Cell’s on the back. So yeah, see you around?” He waits until Jongin nods slowly, and then he’s tugging his cap back on, dipping his head. “Sis, always a pleasure,” he says to Krystal, and saunters away.

“Loser,” Krystal mutters, snatching her pen back from across the table.

Jongin, on the other hand, is motionless apart from the rapid bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He looks down at the business card on the table. It’s half the size of his flashcards and contains half the words, just a simple _Chanyeol Park_ in a wide sans-serif. Beneath that, slightly smaller: _Cinematographer_ , and whoa. Cool. Jongin flips the card over to find big, sparkly-purple looping numbers scrawled across the whole thing. There’s also a smiley face.

“Your brother?” Jongin asks before he can stop himself.

“God no,” Krystal says with overdone repulsion. Seeing Jongin’s confusion she continues, “We grew up together, is all. Couldn’t get rid of him if I tried. He even moved into my building last year, the jackass.”

“Ah, “ says Jongin. “I see. So you’re not…”

Krystal’s entire face scrunches up. It’s quite unflattering. “ _No_ , no way. Ugh, ew.” She starts to gather up her belongings, slips her pens and notebook back into her purse, but then she stops and sighs. “Look. It’s not complicated, you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm. Just text him.”

Jongin nods, watching as she stands and straightens her blouse, wipes at invisible smudges at the corners of her small mouth.

“But you should probably do it after your lab,” she says, and she’s got a watch too. It’s slim and cream colored, and apparently it’s telling her that Jongin’s “… going to be late. Big surprise, that.”

 _What?_ Jongin scrambles for his phone. Crap.

“Thanks,” he starts to say, but trails off when he looks up to see that she’s already gone, café door chiming as it swings shut behind her.

Jongin drains his latte, stuffs everything back in his bag, and falls in line with the sharp trail of her perfume as he makes his way outside. He starts uptown in a half-dazed, half-hearted jog. He absently palms the slim cardstock in his pocket, but stops when he thinks of the glittery ink rubbing off on his jeans. _Rubbing off…_

He starts thinking of Chanyeol’s wide smile and handsome hands, and when he arrives at the lab he’s flushed and out of breath and his own hands are jammed deep inside the pockets of his coat. Damn. It’s gonna be a long day.

  
  
  


What Jongin is now calling _The Most Tortuous Friday Afternoon I’ve Ever Lived In My Life (Day Of The MCAT Exam Excluded, Naturally)_ turns into a tortuous night, as well. By the time he stumbles in through his front door his feet are throbbing, he’s oozing formaldehyde from his pores, and he’s pretty sure there’s something gross stuck in his hair.

So of course he forgets his new roommate prospect is supposed to show, and only gets a ten minute warning in the form of _Mrs. Qi says to get you sesame chicken too? Be there soon._ And of course Jongin had been in the shower and didn’t hear the ribbit, so he has approximately five minutes to make his apartment look like… well, not his apartment. Jongin pushes his tired limbs into sweats and a henley, and then scrambles through every room, shoving pretty much everything inside various cupboards and behind the door of his bedroom. He’s scrubbing the bathroom sink when the buzzer sounds, and Jongin tries to sound as chipper as possible when he answers it.

The reply is staticky, muddled with the sound of a passing motorcycle, but Jongin is pretty sure he hears _Sehun_ , so he lets him up.

“A little small,” is the first thing Sehun says, after dumping a takeout bag on the tiny kitchenette table.

Not even a _hello_ , but at least Sehun’s here, which Jongin appreciates. Jongin is also appreciative of both the heaven-sent provisions and Sehun’s long, attractive face, so he brushes off the brusqueness.

He lied when he implied he remembers Sehun—he doesn’t. At all. All he has is a photo that Jungah emailed him when she heard who his new roommate might be. Well it’s a photo of a photo, anyway. Hideously grainy and out of focus in the way only early nineties’ disposable film can be, it’s apparently of him and Sehun. They’re out in the middle of their Queens cul-de-sac and bundled up in winter gear. Snow pants, heavy boots, knit beanies, the works. It’s hard to tell who’s who because their parkas are on backwards, hoods swallowing their faces. And far away in the fuzzy background there is a man wearing shorts and a tank top. It was summer.

Jongin is clueless as to the motives of their five year old selves, but figures if they were best buds once, surely a second pass at it can’t go too poorly.

“Thanks dude,” Jongin says, and has the mind to shut the front door before going to rummage through the goods. Sehun got enough food for a family of five. Jongin has never met an angel before, so he can’t help the way his eyes water.  “I’ve got major studying to do tonight for health-and-disease and Mrs. Qi won’t deliver to me.”

Sehun pauses in his casual inspection of the linoleum floor and turns to Jongin with an eyebrow raised. “You live across the street.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Jongin gusts, before cramming an egg roll into his mouth. “It’s always on the delivery guy’s way! So convenient!”

Sehun gives him a look. “Right,” he intones, and turns his back. “So where’s my room?”

“Oh, sold on me already? I mean _it_ —the _apartment_ ,” Jongin jests around a mouth full of food. He wipes oil from his lips with the back of his hand, then slaps Sehun on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it. This way.”

Sehun squints very hard at the lint-filled corners and stained wallpaper of the bare room. At least Mark-with-a-k left the bed frame.

“It could use a good sweep, yeah,” Jongin says, then stops and shrugs.

“Where’s your room?”

“Back through the kitchen, why?”

Sehun pushes past him in the narrow doorway, pauses at the threshold to Jongin’s bedroom.

“Hey, wait. It’s kind of—”

The door is already ajar, so Sehun shoulders it open further. It gets caught up in a pair of sweatpants though, and doesn’t budge very far.

“Wow.”

Jongin winces. “Did Mom tell you I’m a med student?”

“What?” Sehun turns to look back at Jongin, who is guiltily packing his mouth to the brim with crab rangoon. “Oh. It’s disgusting, yeah, but I just meant your room is bigger. So either I pay less per month or we switch.” Sehun crosses his arms, tilts his chin up just so. His chin is actually perfectly shaped for this action, sharp lines flowing right down to his neck.

Jongin’s eyes bulge, but he has to finishing chewing before he can respond. “But—”

“I don’t care about any deal you had with your previous roommate.” Sehun smirks. “Though clearly whatever it was didn’t work anyway.”

Jongin stares from Sehun to his bedroom, from his bedroom back to Sehun.

Jongin spends the weekend dragging his mattress, desk, clothes, overstuffed laundry hamper, reading lamp, bong, textbooks, and everything else out through the yellow kitchen and down the hall into his new, slightly smaller bedroom; Sehun moves in on Sunday afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a med student, so apologies for any inaccuracies.  
> Thanks A, as always.


End file.
